


Quality Street

by Gem_Gem, KittieHill



Series: Christmas Prompts [17]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A-Z Christmas Prompt, Belly Rubs, Chocolate, Hair stroking, John is a Mess, M/M, Quality Street Chocolates, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Stomach Ache, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:47:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21837727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: John watched from the corner of his eye as Sherlock reached in, took one out at random and opened it, letting the colourful wrapper flutter to his lap, then the floor, as he popped the chocolate in his mouth and began to eat noisily.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Christmas Prompts [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559605
Comments: 7
Kudos: 69





	Quality Street

John had been sat on the sofa happily for a few hours now, legs curled under him, cushions at his back, fire on across the room, and the flashing of the lights on the Christmas tree a relaxing throbbing bloom of colour, illuminating the room alongside the TV, and reflecting in the bottle of lager in his hand. The football wasn't really that interesting, but John was enjoying a moment of rare tranquillity in the flat, was basking in it. He didn't know when the last time he'd done so was, when he'd last been able to enjoy the quiet, take up the sofa, and have what he wanted on the TV, no matter if he watched it avidly or not. He wanted the choice, for once. So he let himself sink back and relax, letting the peace envelop him.

That was, of course, until Sherlock came in from his bedroom, gown billowing behind him as he headed over and sat down beside John, a box of Quality Street chocolates hidden away in the crook of one long arm. Chocolates that had been missing from Mrs Hudson's kitchen since early that morning. John watched from the corner of his eye as Sherlock reached in, took one out at random and opened it, letting the colourful wrapper flutter to his lap, then the floor, as he popped the chocolate in his mouth and began to eat noisily. It wasn't that it was annoying, John was barely paying attention to what the commentator was saying, but it was purposeful, blatant, and therefore a little suspect. What did he want? He'd been in his bedroom for most of the day, there or the kitchen, hunched over something that smelt like it was rotting from the inside out. What was he up to? Why did John feel warmer with him there, rubbing arms with him, even through the mild irritation? He sighed silently and watched Sherlock pop his fingers into his mouth to scratch away at a piece of toffee, which had become lodged in his tooth, not sure if he should say something. Sherlock, if he wanted to speak or have something to say, would have already huffed, muttered, and complained, very vocally, about whatever it was that he wished to. Yet he sat there wordlessly, a frown of dislike on his face, a curled lip of arrogance wrinkling up his nose, and an angry curling of his long toes. Perhaps he merely wanted the company? The attention?

After several minutes, there was still no words said between them, even as the football match progressed and Sherlock ate more and more sweets. John knew Sherlock had a sweet tooth – the man was a madman for sweets - but even still it seemed quite surprising just how many of the chocolates he was eating. Was it an experiment? Was he merely eating because he was bored? Both could be true, especially when linked with Sherlock.

At the final whistle, John let out a somewhat contented exhale and put down his bottle, checking the time, keeping a chewing Sherlock in his line of sight and reaching for the remote. Normally he'd go to bed after a day of football catch-up, all the matches he'd missed over the course of several weeks digesting in the back of his mind, the Sky hard drive now emptied, but he wasn't ready for bed yet, not even close, and couldn't deny his curiosity about Sherlock's lack of verbal grousing. Curious about the chocolates and how close he was sitting, how nice it was, even with the constant nibbling and littering of wrappers, John decided to stay and skim through the channels to see what else was on and prolong their proximity. He found, in his idle search, an old romance film that was on one of the oldie channels and paused on it, recalling it to be one mentioned in passing by Sherlock, mentioned in a slightly fond tone of voice, one of the rare moments where he'd had nothing bad to say about it, even if he had later continued to deny it. Smiling to himself, catching sight of Sherlock's mouth ticking upwards, he left it going and relaxed, putting his feet down flat on the floor, giving Sherlock an option to bring them closer. If he wanted. If that was what he'd planned all along.

Sherlock grumbled a few moments into it and John tensed, thinking he'd done wrong, thinking he had misjudged it all, or that Sherlock had merely been winding up for a rant, would use the plot of the film to mock something, someone, him, but he merely put the half empty box on the coffee table, brushing wrappers that clung to him, that had slipped down between his legs, off onto the floor. He then, without any kind of hesitation, tilted sideways, twisting and bringing his body down gracefully until his head was resting in John's lap, legs hanging over the armrest of the sofa as he whined. He whined again seconds later, then shuffled, shifted, fidgeted, and rather purposeful curled up as if in discomfort. It didn't take a genius to realise why, not when the evidence was littered at John's feet, when the rest of the sealed chocolates glinted out at him, their coverings catching the light from the tree. Sherlock had eaten too much, and whether that had been his intention or not John was undecided. All he could do was blink, unsure what Sherlock wanted him to do before, as if reading his mind - something he seemed to do regularly, though not always what John wanted him to read - he reached for one of John's lifted hands, bringing it down and pressing it to his very faintly bloated stomach.

John, frozen in place at the oddly affectionate wanting gesture, watched with bated breath as Sherlock gave his knuckles a stroking pat and took a loose guiding hold of John's wrist to slowly pull, control, and direct John's hand into stroking him, into beginning a steady sweeping rhythm against the heat of his aching abdomen. John felt his heart skip into a racing beat, felt his cheeks rush hot. Sherlock was using him to soothe his stomachache and though it felt odd to be doing this, somehow felt far more intimate than anything else they had done, John liked it, liked how easy it had seemed for Sherlock, how open it showed he was, how far he would go for the chance, to find an excuse. The circumstance was almost romantic, if John squinted at it from an angle. As close to romance as Sherlock Holmes got. It was almost funny, how strange it was, how different it was from what was conventionally seen as romantic, like the film that played, the star-crossed lovers battling for their relationship, for love, for a life.

He tried to relax into it. Tried to get a handle on it, on his feelings, his thoughts, his speeding descent into madness, into this developing thing that had no name. Where they even considered friends anymore? Friends with benefits? Perhaps he was reading too much into it all? John often misread the signals that he thought Sherlock was giving out, often got the wrong end of the stick was left dazed in Sherlock's wake, not getting what they were doing, where they were going, how they were going to come out the other side. Was Sherlock just using John as a way to experience all the things he'd heard of, he'd seen, he'd wanted to understand? John didn't know why he bothered trying to understand anything, why he asked himself an unending amount of internal questions he couldn't answer. They need to talk, he needed to open his bloody mouth, but he couldn't, and so they didn't, they just jumped into danger, into chaos. It was what they did best, after all, wasn't it? John sighed through his nose and looked down at Sherlock, and instead of being smart and asking, discussing, he simply switched on his clinical mindset, seeing it as an odd medical treatment. He was a doctor giving comfort to a patient. He was giving Sherlock relief in one of the ways that was asked of him, even though he couldn't justify the way that Sherlock made him feel. Couldn't ignore the sensations coursing through his nerves.

Sherlock didn't seem to be having the same trouble, didn't seem as bothered by the dizzying seesaw of their friendship, and plucked a cushion from nearby to use as a pillow, snuggling his head into it, slumping and sighing as he reached down to crumpled up his top and push his pyjama waistband lower, holding it away from his stomach to let them be skin-to-skin. John knew, of course, that if he looked he would see Sherlock's bare genitals, would see miles of exposed, pale flesh just waiting to be touched and so he kept his eyes forward, kept his mind away from the sudden barrage of desires, of wants, as much as he could. With one hand on Sherlock's stomach, he brought the other cautiously up rest on the mop of dark curls, stroking them as an enjoyable accompaniment to his stomach rubbing, and bit down on the inside of his lip when Sherlock practically mewled aloud, stretching his legs and toes out, basking in the ministrations like a cat. It made John snort and pause for a moment, letting him squirm and ensuring that the touch didn't become sexual. Sherlock, he knew, would probably have been up for it, but John didn't want that, even if he yearned for it, even if he would allow it, would fall into it, he wanted to follow where this went, quite enjoying this quiet, quality time they were spending together, sprinkled with the rhythmically sparkling Christmas lights sparkled rhythmically. The scene was perfect, the company was the only company he needed.

Minutes drifted by, rain began to fall and tap against the window, adding a soft undertone soundtrack to the intimacy between them, and John watched as one romantic film ended and another began, followed the new story until the heroine of the film was finally caught and wooed, brought in for a delightful kiss by a man with a jawline like a brick. Clichéd but classic. John wondered why every director thought women needed to be chased and forced into a kiss, forced into an embrace, to get them to fall in love with the male lead. Wondered why it was so popular to have the woman slap, scream, insult, and reject the man, only for it to all be erased after a rather violent looking smooch. He supposed some women would be like that, some would want a man to take charge, to lunge for what he wanted, and look through her angry facade, but he'd certainly not seen it as often as displayed. He understand the trope, liked it in some ways, liked the adventure, the twists and turns from hate to love, but that wasn't represented in the current film, n

" _Stupid_..." he commented in a low mumble, powerless to resist. 

Surprised Sherlock didn't respond, that he'd been quiet for far longer than expected, that he'd not been forcing John's hand in specific motions and had allowed him to instead simply skim, touch, and stroke, to smooth up his pectoral muscles, over slim ribs, across his navel and down the trail of dark hair. Surprised that he hadn't made a noise, hadn't stopped him or complained about the birds nest of frizz that his hair had become under John's fingers. John leaned slightly forward and tilted his head to look at him, to push back his messy fringe and inspect his face, bemusedly fond to find that his eyes were closed, lips pursed in sleep. Occasional breathy snores left him as his chest rose and fell, utterly at peace on John's lap, under John's hands, in John's care. Protected. Loved.

Loved?

Sitting up and pushing back into the sofa, John stared with wide eyes at the tree, at the lights, the mirror, the stupid annoying adverts playing on the TV and breathed, and shook. He already knew he'd grown to love Sherlock over their time together, as a friend would, as a brother in arms, yet the feeling, the pang, that he'd felt in that moment, was not that. It was something different. Something stronger. Had it always been there? Hidden behind the other? Was it one in the same? How could he tell them apart, more so with the lust, the eagerness, the crush muddling the in-between? John wanted to run away in the sudden strangling panic. He didn't want to fall in love with his best friend. He didn't want to admit that it was probably already too late.

This was going to end badly, this was going to be a disaster. This was not happening. He would deal with it all another day. He was confused, as always, as he'd been the moment they'd met, confused about it all, about Sherlock, about himself, about what they meant to each other. Everything. It had all been too quick. Far, far too quick, and now he was stuck, unable to break free, of a consuming, bewildering longing for the man he lived with. John resumed stroking Sherlock's hair, keeping a warm, gentle pressure on his stomach and let out a shivery breath,

Why couldn't he just get a grip, stop being an idiot, and sort his life out?

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback fuels us! 
> 
> [Kittie's Twitter](https://twitter.com/ao3hill)  
> [Gem's Tumblr](http://gem-gem-bites.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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